


POSH

by Ejella



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gratuitous use of the word posh, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejella/pseuds/Ejella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg discovers that John has a tattoo on his chest and he becomes obsessed with discovering its meaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into this wonderful fandom. In fact, this is the first thing I've written in years. Insert nervous hand wringing. Feedback is definitely welcome!

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose in weary frustration. Too little sleep, too much caffeine, and definitely way too much Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. He’d already been working 10 hours and had at least another three ahead of him before he could call it a day. On top of all that, he now had a cranky doctor to deal with.

“I’m a doctor. I know if I’ve been seriously injured and I haven’t. It was a glancing blow that left barely a scratch.”

Greg sighed. When working with the dynamic duo, people tended to focus solely on Sherlock. He flounced onto a scene full of high drama and swirling coattails. He took all the attention upon himself. As a result, people tended to overlook the quieter, more subdued John Watson.

They saw a quiet man, caught up in the rip tide that was Sherlock Holmes. They assumed he floated along quietly and was content to go where Sherlock led.

Greg knew differently, but even he tended to forget that John wasn’t just the amiable sidekick keeping Sherlock in line. He was a former captain in the army and a doctor. He had a stubborn streak a kilometer wide.

“John,” Greg said in a reasonable tone. “I know you’re a doctor but you’re also a civilian who was injured during the course of a police investigation. You got stabbed for god’s sake.”

An impatient huff escaped John. “I did _not_ get stabbed. I got _scratched._ Big difference there, yeah?”

Greg could argue the semantics of this all night and not get anywhere so he had to pull out his trump card. He straightened his shoulders and said in his command voice which always worked on his team, “John, you have two choices here. You either let the paramedics look at the wound here or I drag your arse down to A&E. The paramedics will be done in no time. If you go to A&E you’ll likely be there for hours. Your choice, mate.”

“Not much of a choice there, _mate_ ,” John grumbled. “Fine, send over the damned paramedics.” John snapped his fingers to indicate he’d just had a great idea “And why don’t you stick around so you can see that it’s _just a scratch I could have fixed at home._ ”  Greg turned so that John couldn’t see his smile. John really was good at being sarcastic. He wondered if he’d come by the skill naturally or if it was the influence of Sherlock.

Greg waved the paramedics over. “While they’re fixing you I’ll get your statement.” He didn’t mention that it would be easier with John since he was stationary. His Highness was still swanning about the place. He’d be in a total strop if he was interrupted.

As John was removing his jumper and shirt, Greg asked how they knew Dumont was the murderer.

John gave him a wide grin. “You are going to love this one!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Oh God. Ok, just give it to me,” he said as he got out his notebook.

John launched into a story about shoe polish and buffing techniques. “Normally Dumont polishes in a circular fashion, but after the murder he polished back to front with a brush rather than a soft cloth.”

Greg looked up. “Are you having me on? Seriously, Sherlock says this man is a murderer by the way he polishes his shoes?” He sighed and John laughed. “Please tell me there is more evidence than that. I cannot arrest a man based on his shoe polish!”

John continued to laugh. “Yes, it’s true. Sherlock can explain it better. He’s around here somewhere.”

A paramedic interrupted them. “Excuse me Dr. Watson. I need to remove your vest so we can see the extent of your injury.”

“My scratch you mean,” he said but obliged and removed the vest.

Greg caught a glimpse of the wound, and John was correct. It was minor. Then he noticed something else unusual.

On the left side of his chest below the gunshot scar and above the nipple was a word. Four capitalized letters in black. **POSH**. It couldn’t have been more than five centimeters high. It was simple. No flourishes. Just those four letters standing out from his pale skin.

He tried to remember the last time he’d seen John’s chest. It would have been the night that his divorce came through. John and Sherlock had dragged him out of his flat and into theirs. They sat around drinking a really nice bottle of whiskey. At some point, they decided to the reenact the scene from Jaws by comparing scars. As drunk as he was, Greg was certain he would have remembered that tattoo.

He motioned to John’s chest. “Is that a new tattoo?”

“Oh, this?” John seemed slightly flustered and the tips of his ears turned pink. “Yeah, just got it a few months ago.”

Greg sounded the words in his mouth. Posh. “No offence, John, but I never took you as the posh sort.”

“Oh, you would be surprised at how _posh_ he is.” The rich baritone belonged to Sherlock. John rolled his eyes.

Greg could feel that there was a separate conversation going on there but he was too tired to deal with it. After disinfecting and placing a bandage over the wound, the paramedic gave him the all clear. “Ok, you two. Off with you, but be in my office by 10am.” Sherlock gave a bare wave of acknowledgement. “I mean it!” he shouted after them.  One last sigh and he got back to work.

**********

When Greg first joined the force, he thought it would be nonstop action. Solving mysteries, catching criminals, saving lives. No one mentioned that the majority of his job would be paperwork. Soul crushing, mind numbing paperwork.

He knew he should dive in and just work through it, but his mind wasn’t engaged. It kept wandering to John’s tattoo. It seemed so out of character for him. His cop’s intuition kept telling him there was more to the story.

So what if there is more to it, he asked himself. It’s none of his business. John didn’t need to explain why he had gotten a tattoo or what it meant.

He diligently spent the next 20 minutes on reports until he said fuck it. All he could think of was what it meant.

He knew how people typically used the word posh. He wondered if there were other meanings he wasn’t aware of.

He opened a browser and typed in the word. The response he got was not at all surprising.

**Posh**

— **_adj_**

1\. smart, elegant, or fashionable;   exclusive: _posh clothes_

2\. upper-class or genteel

— **_adv_**

3\. in a manner associated with the upper class: _to talk posh_

John was a nice guy, but he wasn’t _posh_. John would even agree with that so why would he have it permanently inked into his skin? Greg sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He let his mind wander. He remembered hearing how it was a nautical term. He looked it up. Posh was an acronym for Port Out Starboard Home. It was supposed to be the ideal cabin location on a ship. But that made no sense either. John was Army not Navy, and even if it had something to do with his service, he would have gotten it then, not years later.

Greg reasoned that if it didn’t mean the definition, then it had to stand for something. Was it an acronym or anagram of something else? He opened an anagram solver.

Posh = Shop = Hops

Yes, John seemed to do all the shopping and liked beer, but would he tattoo that on his body? No, it made no sense.

He typed in a search for acronyms of posh.

_Probability of Severe Hail_

_Principles of Occupational Safety and Health_

_Prevention of Sexual Harassment_

He chuckled at the last one. John was forever trying to get dates. But no, he’d never received a whisper of a complaint regarding him from any of the women he’d worked with here at the Yard.

No, it had to mean something personal and that wasn’t likely something he would discover.

Greg rubbed his hands over his face. It had been a nice diversion, but he still had a truly formidable amount of paperwork to get through.

He was reaching for the phone to call in Donovan when he saw lettering on the base of the phone that he’d never noticed before. It said: Property of New Scotland Yard. He snickered. Like who would want an antiquated phone system.

Property of New Scotland Yard. Realization hit. Well, fuck. He’d figured it out.

POSH.

_Property of Sherlock Holmes._

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the notes and kudos! I was very nervous about posting. Y'all made me feel much better!
> 
> I originally said this would be two chapters but I keep rewriting the resolution so I thought I'd post this and let the end develop as it would like. There will be a third chapter wrapping things up.

Property of Sherlock Holmes.

Greg couldn’t stop thinking about John’s tattoo. It had been a week since he’d seen it. Did it really mean Property of Sherlock Holmes? No, no. It couldn’t be.  John didn’t seem the type to declare himself someone else’s property. Besides, he was straight, right?

But what else could it mean? Why would John do that if they weren’t in a relationship of some sort? Sure, he’d seen his share of shitty tattoos, but those were mostly in kids who didn’t know better. Also that seemed the sort of thing a 16 year old would do for his first love.

Maybe John didn’t have a say in it? Sherlock seemed like the type to stamp his possessions. He probably put his name on all his books and equipment. But that still didn’t answer how John ended up with the tattoo in the first place. Could Sherlock have drugged him and done it while he was unconscious? Would Sherlock do that?  

Who was he kidding? Of course Sherlock would do something ridiculous like that, but would he do it to John?

John said he got the tattoo a few months ago. Would he still be with Sherlock if he’d done it against his will? Something like that would cause a major rift between the two and he didn’t remember any fights or tension other than the normal bickering they did.

“Sir?” Greg flushed as he realized that Sally was talking to him and he hadn’t heard a thing.

“Sorry, Donovan. What was that?”

She gave him an odd look. “We’ve finished securing the perimeter. Freak’s still with the body.”

He looked over to where Sherlock and John were crouched by the body. They looked like they normally did…or were they closer than normal? Were they leaning towards one another? He watched as Sherlock pointed out a detail. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but he would swear he saw John mouth the word brilliant. Did they just smile at each other?

Sally cleared her throat. Greg scrubbed his hands through his hair and told himself he had to stop obsessing. He focused on the woman before him. “Sorry,” he told her. “I’m having a bit of an off night.”

She snorted. “Any night with the Freak is an off night for me.”

He snorted. “Ha bloody ha. Now tell me what you’ve got.”

It appeared to have been a simple crime but it had the potential to be high profile since the victim was the daughter of a well-known CEO. He wanted to get it solved quickly so he called in Sherlock. Of course, the idea of seeing him and John interacting with each other had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Sherlock said disdainfully as he walked over, snapping off his gloves. John followed more quietly. “It was the sister in law obviously. I don’t know why you insist on calling me in on the imbecilic crimes, Lestrade. I had better things to do tonight.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Sherlock quirked a brow at him. Did he actually say that aloud? Dammit. He could feel his face turning red. Any hope Sherlock hadn’t noticed it was lost when a smirk joined the arched brow. It was the Sherlock Holmes double barrel of condescension.

“Things,” said Sherlock drawing out the s in a sibilant manner. Did his eyes dart to John when he said that? Did he just give John a heated glance? Oh god. He was starting to sound like a bad romance novel in his head. He needed to end this train of thought.

“So John, up for a pub night this week?” Maybe he could ferret the information out of him over pints. John always got chatty when he’d had a few.

John grinned at him. “Sure. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Sherlock shot Greg a sulky look. “You never invite me.”

John laughed and nudged him with his shoulder. A friendly nudge? A romantic nudge? “That’s because you find pub nights tedious and pedestrian.” John held up his hand to forestall any argument. “Your words, not mine. Besides, that would be the perfect chance for you to dissect the brain with mad cow disease that Molly’s holding for you. You go to Bart’s and we’ll go to The Bishops Finger next to the hospital. Any medical emergencies we can rush over or if you finish early, you can join the ordinary masses as we shout at the telly.”

Only Sherlock, Greg thought, could make a sniff seem aristocratic. He agreed as if he were the queen bestowing her favors.

 

**********

Greg met John the following night. Sherlock went straight to Bart’s. “Sorry he didn’t stop in and say hi,” John told him. “But he’s been really excited to see the diseased brain.” Greg crinkled his nose and John laughed. “That’s Sherlock for you.”

Greg bought the first round. They spent the first 15 minutes or so catching up and chatting about sports scores, the weather and latest political scandals. When they were on their second pints, Greg decided to ease in slowly.

“So, how are things between you and Sherlock? Anything new?” Greg thought it was a perfect opening. He put on his face he used when he wanted to seem utterly trustworthy to suspects.

John took a sip and nodded. “Um, yeah. It’s good. It’s all good.”

He suddenly hated how inscrutable John could be when he wanted. Greg was normally good at reading people but he couldn’t pick up a thing.

He took the plunge. “Dating anyone new?”

John looked at him, looked away and then shook his head. “Nope. Not dating anyone new.”

Wait, did that mean he wasn’t dating anyone, or that he had been dating someone long enough for them not to be considered new? Greg cursed his vague question and John’s oblique answer.

“That sounded like a bit of a non-answer. Are you dating someone then?”

John looked suspiciously at him. “Why the twenty questions about my love life?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to blurt out and ask if he and Sherlock were shagging, but he lost his nerve. Covering quickly he said he knew someone John might be interested in.

John seemed to relax a bit. “Thanks, but no. I’ve got enough on my plate for now. Not looking for anything else.”

Damn. Time for another tactic.

“I was reading your blog and saw the one where you went to Arundel. Looked interesting.” It had something to do with a shady inn keeper who was killing clients. From the blog, it sounded like they had shared a room.

John scratched at the back of his neck. Was he blushing a bit? “Yeah, it was definitely…interesting.”

Greg made a note to call up the coppers in Arundel to see if they knew anything. Greg mentally slapped himself when he realized where his thoughts were leading him. He was turning into a stalker.

He’d known Sherlock for years, and yet they weren’t close. He and John were friends, but they weren’t best mates. They weren’t sob sisters; they had friendly pints. Even on the night they got him drunk, Sherlock had declared a moratorium on talking about feelings. They had avoided the messy subjects and instead had regaled each other with raucous stories.

What was he doing? This wasn’t like him. Was he really trying to out someone who may not want to be outed?

John cleared his throat suddenly looking uncomfortable yet determined. “Look, Greg. There’s something I wanted to tell –“ His phone pinged and he grabbed it quickly as if in relief. Greg watched as his face blanched. “Oh my god. I’m going to _kill_ him!”

“Medical emergency?” Greg asked.

“That utter prick!” John thrust the phone at Greg’s face. “Read that.”

 _May have accidentally been infected with_ _bovine spongiform encephalopathy. Come at once. – SH_

Greg choked. “Will he be okay?”

“He may not be once I’m through with him,” John muttered darkly.

Greg watched as John rushed out of the pub. Wait, what had he been about to tell him? Part of him wanted to chase John down so they could finish the discussion but there was no way to make that work. ‘Yes, I know your possible boyfriend may be infected with a deadly disease, but what were you going to say?’ Had he been about to fess up? How could he let it go now? Greg banged his head on the table. Looked like he was back in stalker mode.

 

 **********

It came to Greg in the middle of the night. If they were in a relationship and John had a tattoo, wouldn’t it make sense that Sherlock also had one? Maybe he had one that said Property of John Watson. That would make things easy. How could he find out? He saw John’s because of an injury. He wouldn’t want Sherlock to be hurt and he couldn't think of a way to ask him to remove his shirt without looking like a pervert.

Maybe a fake drugs bust in the early morning before he had a chance to get dressed. No, that wouldn’t work. He had to use them sparingly so that Sherlock wouldn’t become complacent about them.

He wanted to talk over his theories with someone, but he couldn’t risk the chance of them becoming fodder for gossip. He was on his own for this one.

The solution appeared before him thanks to an update to the FBIs most wanted list. They had a section that listed scars and marks. He could make that work in his favor. He’d have to be clever about it though or Sherlock would see right through it. In what capacity could he ask them to reveal any scars or tattoos?

 

**********

Greg looked up from his desk. “Sherlock, John. Thanks for coming in.”

“You said you needed some follow up on the Lister case?” John asked.

Greg nodded. “I need some clarification on a few points before I can close out the file officially.”

“You couldn’t have done this over the phone?” Sherlock asked. “We do have lives, you know.”

“Cut it,” John admonished him. He spoke to Greg. “We had nothing on this morning. In fact I promised Sherlock that if we came to the Yard he could troll for any open cases.”

“Only good ones,” Sherlock interjected. “Not those that could be solved by a trained monkey.” He paused. “Of course, considering your team, that would be an insult to primates.”

Greg sighed. He knew how testy Sherlock could be when asked to complete paperwork, but it was his own fault. He was the one being driven mad with curiosity. He gestured to the chairs opposite his desk and they sat.

“By the way,” he said casually. “While I have you here, I need to gather some information from you. The Yard has a new program in which they’re creating a database of scars and tattoos of people on the force in case those are needed for body identification.”

John nodded. “The Army does something similar. With the chance of explosions, you need as much detail as possible for identifying bodies.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Greg. He knew he was being deduced. Hold steady, Greg, he told himself. Eye to eye contact. Do not let him see you’re lying. And whatever you do, do not show fear or doubt.

Sherlock tapped his finger to his lips. “I have not heard of such a program. I can understand it for the armed forces, but for a police department in London?”

Greg felt pinned beneath Sherlock’s scrutiny. “Not all departments, just those deemed high risk like this one and the bomb squad.”

Before he could respond, Sally who had slipped into the office during the conversation, spoke up. “It’s a right pain in the arse collecting all of this. On the upside though, I learned all sorts about my coworkers. Do you know how many have men have mum written somewhere on their bodies?”

Sherlock gave her an appraising look. “Very well, Lestrade. What information do you need from us?

Greg made a production of opening a program on his computer. “John, I’ll start with you. I know about your gunshot wound and the tattoo POSH. Do you have any others?”

“I have a RAMC insignia on my left bicep. That’s all,” John told him.

Greg typed in the information and then looked at Sherlock. “You?”

Sherlock was still looking suspiciously at him, but he did relent. “I have a tattoo on my left pectoral.”

Jackpot. “Well, what does it say?”

“74851687”

Greg looked quizzically at what he typed. “What? Seriously?”

“Problem?” Sherlock asked arching that damned brow again.

“No, just seems a bit odd. What does it mean?”

Sherlock stood up to leave. “You didn’t specify that you needed the meaning just that you needed to know the markings.”

As he swept out of the room with John in his wake, Greg jumped up. “Wait! I need those details of the Lister case.” He sighed as they ignored him. Looked like he’d be making up the details again.

Sally leaned against the door frame. “Care to explain what that massive amount of bullshit was? There’s no program like that.”

Greg smiled wryly at her. “Believe me when I tell you that you do not want to know. And thanks for backing me up there.”

“It’s what sergeants do for their bosses.”

He looked back at the numbers. Damn, Greg thought. Another mystery and he hadn’t even solved the first one yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses on what Sherlock's tattoo means? A cookie to anyone who gets it right :)


	3. Chapter 3

“Molly.”

“Greg,” she said surprised. She stood up from her desk. “What do you want?” She blushed. “I mean can I help you with something?”

He had thought a long time about the numbers. It wasn’t a date or a phone number. And since it was Sherlock, it could be something obscure. It might have had something to do with science or crime. He checked the record numbers in the Met archive to see if it referenced an old case but they didn’t match anything. He tried googling it, but that yielded no leads. That left the science angle and Molly was the one who came to mind when he wondered who he could reach out to for answers. He’d had to stop by the morgue anyway for a case he was working on so he’d thought he’d try her in person.

“I’ve got a bit of a mystery on my hands.”

She smiled. “Well, you are a detective.”

He chuckled. “This one is a bit different.” He pulled out a slip of paper on which he’d written the numbers. “Does this mean anything to you?”

She took the paper and ran her fingers over the numbers. Her eyes widened and she seemed to tense up a bit

“Are you familiar with it?” he asked her.

She hesitated a moment. “Is this about Sherlock’s tattoo?”

“You know about it?” he asked surprised.

Molly nodded, her eyes averted from his, her cheeks flushing. “He had a problem with a diseased brain and he had to go though the decontamination process. He took off his shirt and I, uh, might have caught a glimpse. Not that I was looking deliberately or anything! I saw he had some numbers on his chest. I thought they were unusual so I wrote them down.” Her face was bright red by the time she finished speaking.

He smiled at her hoping to lessen her embarrassment. “That was some quick thinking, and yeah, I remember that.  I was with John that night. He was pissed.”

She giggled. “He was shouting at Sherlock the entire time. You should have heard him. I have three brothers and I didn’t know half the words he was using!”

Before she could head off on a tangent about her brothers, he gently prodded her back to the topic. “About the numbers?”

“I checked all sorts of possibilities, but in the end, it was the simplest explanation. Come into the lab with me.” She led Greg into the other room. “The answer is in here.”

He looked around and didn’t see anything that stood out to him, but he was also admittedly out of his depth here.

Molly led him to a poster attached to a wall. “This is the periodic table of elements.” She looked at him expectantly.

“And?” he asked her.

She smiled slightly. “Oh, I just assumed. Sorry.”

He grinned back at her. “Science was my worst subject. Talk to me like you would to a person who knows nothing. Maybe then I can understand it.”

“All of the basic building blocks are made up of elements. Each one is represented by a number and a one or two letter code. I figured out that the numbers stand for Tungsten, Astatine, Sulfur, Oxygen and Nitrogen.”

He snorted. “I’m impressed that you figured it out, but honestly, it means absolutely nothing to me. Do they make up something?”

She shook her head. “No, these are just random elements, but besides an atomic number, each one is denoted with an alphabetic letter.” She paused. She pointed to the first. “Tungsten is number 74 on the chart and its code is W.” She pointed to the next. “Astatine is 85 and is At. Sulfur, over here, is 16 and is S. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

His eyes widened in excitement. “Number 8 is O and 7 is N. When you put the letters together it spells out ‘Watson’.” He took a deep breath and just stared at the poster as the truth sank in.  “Wow. This is just bloody incredible!”

“It is? Why?”

Greg liked Molly, and he knew she was discreet so he made the decision to trust her. “John has a tattoo too. It says POSH. I think it means Property of Sherlock Holmes.”

A very quiet “Oh.”

Greg felt bad but she couldn’t be that surprised. She had put together the meaning of Sherlock’s tattoo. But perhaps she was hoping it would be unrequited and she would still have a chance. But with this new information, those hopes were dashed.

“Yeah. John’s tattoo had me wondering if they’re a couple. I’ve been trying to see if there have been differences, but if there have been, I haven’t figured them out. Have you noticed any changes? Any new behaviors?”

Molly shook her head. “I don’t think so – oh!”

“What?”

She bit her lip. “Now that you mention they’re together, I think I may have, well, uh, interrupted them a few weeks back.”

“Interrupted them? How?”

She shrugged and blushed. “You know, _interrupted_ them.”

Greg jerked in surprise. “Christ! In the morgue? That’s just disturbing and gross.”

“Not in the morgue, but here, in the lab.” She waved her hand to encompass the tables and stools.

Greg visibly jumped hoping not touch any Sherlock and John contaminated surface. “What? Here! Hell, that’s not better. It’s still right next door to the morgue.”

There was no way he was going to ask for details. If Molly figured she _interrupted_ them then she probably had. If they were going at it at the morgue where else where they doing it? At the Yard? At crime scenes?

As if reading his mind, she gave him a sly look. “You know, if they’ve, uh, done things here, chances are they’ve, uh, done them at Scotland Yard too. I’ve only seen the women’s toilets there. They’re very clean and spacious. I figure the men’s must be too. Maybe you should ask around and see if anyone has seen them in there at the same time. That might help you get your confirmation.”

“Fucking hell. Sorry, Molly, that was _not_ an image I needed! You are a truly evil woman.”

She sighed and Greg thought it sounded a bit sad. “I know. People always underestimate me.” She took a steadying breath. “But Greg, if they’ve not told anyone and even tattooed themselves in code maybe you should drop it. Maybe they don’t want anyone to know.”

Greg sighed. “I’ve thought that too. I guess it’s the detective in me wanting to get to the answers. It’s just that I’ve started on this and I have to finish it.” He gave her an earnest look. “I swear, Molly, that whatever I find, I will not make it public knowledge. You’re the only person I’ve spoken to about it and that was because I knew I could trust you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

 **********

Greg hated receiving calls in the middle of the night. They never boded well. Sally wasn’t joking when she’d said it was a hell of a crime scene.

He knew he needed Sherlock on this one. He checked the time. 0357.

Calling Sherlock’s phone yielded no answer which was odd. Sherlock was surgically attached to his phone. He decided to try John’s instead.

A sleepy John answered. “hello?”

“John, it’s Greg. I’m sorry to be calling so early –“

He stopped talking as he heard an equally sleepy voice mumbling in the background.

“If that’s Harry, tell her she’s on her own. We’re not picking her up.” That baritone voice could only belong to Sherlock.

He looked at the phone in shock. Did he really just hear right? Were they in bed together, sleeping? Like Sherlock often said, he couldn’t theorize without all the data. Maybe they’d fallen asleep on the couch. Without confirmation it could be anything but it certainly sounded like they were in bed.

“Is this about my sister?” John asked him sounding slightly more alert.

“No. It’s a case.”

“Hold on.” He heard John say to Sherlock, “It’s Greg. Sounds like he has a case.”

There was some shuffling and then the other man was on the phone.

Sherlock’s voice still sounded rough with sleep. “This had better be good, Lestrade.”

“I think you’re going to really like this one,” Greg promised him.

**********

Sherlock did indeed like the crime scene. There was no body per se. On the floor of an abandoned building were fifty fingers and toes laid out in a smiley face. From first glance, it appeared that the digits were from different people and were different ages. A couple were most definitely fresh but others had the dryness and brittleness of age.

Sherlock was inspecting the surroundings while John was crouched over the fingers. Greg came over and squatted next to him.

“Quite a wakeup call, eh?”

John laughed. “Yeah, but nothing surprises me with Sherlock.”

Greg cleared his throat. “Sherlock thought it was your sister. Does she do that often?”

John’s demeanor changed instantly. His shoulders stiffened and his face closed down into an impassive mask. Greg immediately backed off. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

John sighed, his shoulders easing a bit. “She’s been going through a rough patch lately. She’d already called once this week.” He gave a wry grin. “To be honest, I’d rather deal with severed fingers than a drunk sister.”

“I never thought Sherlock would be the type to wrangle siblings. Not sure Sherlock and a drunk person are a good combination.”

John snorted. “You should see them. Oil and water. He spends the taxi ride home ranting about her swearing this is the last time he’ll do it.”

“Why does he still go then?”

John simply said, “He knows how much it upsets me when she’s like this.”

Greg felt like he was getting a fuller picture but didn’t think this was the time to prod any further. He left to talk to the forensics team. He watched as Sherlock joined John. They were having a quiet conversation during which they both glanced at him. Great, they were probably talking about him. He ignored them.

Eventually Sherlock made his way over to him. “Anything,” Greg asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “Plenty.” He waved his hand in Greg’s direction. “You were talking to John. I can see how hard your little brain has been working lately. I can practically hear the gears shifting and groaning from disuse. What’s caused our dear Detective Inspector to be so industrious? I don’t think it’s this case. Could it be something else?” He lifted a brow in question.

Greg flushed. “I know it’s early but don’t be an arse.”

Sherlock grinned unpleasantly. “I am almost always an arse. But Lestrade,” he leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I can be so much worse so tread lightly.”

Greg raised his hands in surrender. He did not need Sherlock in a mood on top of the weird crime scene. “Stand down. Surprising as it is, I like both John _and_ you. If you two are together, then good on you both. That’s it. It’ll go no further than me if you want.”

Sherlock nodded curtly. “Good.”

“About the case,” Greg prompted him.

“I have six theories so far. We’ll need to go back to the Yard to go through some files. I should be able to narrow it down from there.”

“Okay. And Sherlock? I’m really chuffed for you.”

Sherlock lifted one corner of his mouth in a slight grin and nodded.

**********

Four hours later and they were still at the yard pouring over files. The tense standoff between him and Sherlock seemed to be over. Sherlock, while usually insulting, very rarely made outright threats. It had been a bit disturbing. He wondered if it was because he might have spread the knowledge that they were together or that he might have upset John with his questions about his sister. Either way it showed an unprecedented level of protectiveness in Sherlock he’d never seen before. It was oddly touching.

For the first hour or so, Sherlock kept looking at him. Sherlock must have found some inner resolution or deduced that Greg wasn’t going to out them to the Yard. He finally stopped being tense and glaring at him.

John stood from his chair, stretching. “I’ll be right back.”

Greg was on sudden alert. “Where are you going?” 

“Uh, to the loo.”

“Why?”

John scrunched his brow at him. “What do you mean why? To use the toilet. I’ve had three coffees and I’m about to explode.”

“Really?” he asked dubiously.

Sherlock, who had been watching the exchange with amusement, slammed down the file he was holding. “Oh for god’s sake! Enough! Lestrade thinks you and I are sneaking off to have sexual intercourse in the toilets.”

“Sherlock!” They shouted in unison.

“Christ,” John muttered as he scrubbed a hand over his face. “We weren’t even _both_ going to the loo. Just me.”

“He assumes I would have made an excuse either to go to the loo as well or to get a beverage. I would have then joined you for a _quickie_.”

Greg dropped his head in his hands. “Oh god. Please don’t use that word again in my presence.”

John stared at the floor pointedly.

“What are you looking at?” Sherlock asked him.

“I’m waiting for the floor to open up and swallow me whole.” He realized at the same time as Greg what he’d just said. He collapsed in a chair muttering “oh god” over and over. He suddenly jumped up. “I’m going to the loo… _alone_.”

Greg and Sherlock were left in the room in uncomfortable silence. At least Greg thought it was uncomfortable. Sherlock had a small smile playing around his mouth. Greg stood and moved to the whiteboard where they had their theories listed. Sherlock, unfortunately, followed.

“You’ve got questions.”

Greg nodded. “So, you and John. I was right. You’re together?”

Sherlock smirked at him. “Define together. That’s an unspecific term.”

Greg crossed his arms. “Don’t be a smart arse. You know exactly what I mean.”

Sherlock paused as if considering his answer. He gave a short nod. “Very well, then. Yes, we are _together_.”

“This is quite the turnaround from earlier when you _threatened_ me” He poked a finger at Sherlock’s chest. “Which is not a good thing to do to an _officer of the law_!”

Sherlock stepped back from him. “We have no wish for this to be public. The press, the public, our enemies, they are already too invested in our lives. However, we discussed it and we know we can trust you to be discreet. You are one of the few people who know. Do not betray our trust.”

Greg felt a bloom of warmth in his chest. That was probably the nicest thing Sherlock had ever said to him.  He nodded. He could understand their reasons. “Just so you’re aware, Molly knows too. She saw your tattoo and figured it out. She also thinks she _interrupted_ you in the lab.”

Greg almost laughed when he saw a hint of pink high on Sherlock’s cheeks. “Ah, yes.” He cleared his throat in discomfort. “Please do not tell John. I told him she hadn’t a clue about us.”

“Yes, well, you may want to avoid the use of public locations for your liaisons if you want to keep it secret. When did it start?”

Sherlock looked slightly uncomfortable at this. “Why does it matter?”

“Because you’re both my friends and friends know these things. Besides I’m in your circle of trust now.”

Sherlock scoffed. “What a ridiculous saying.”

Greg rolled his eyes at him. “It’s a movie reference. Ask John. Well?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Do you remember the night your divorce was finalized?”

It took a moment before horrified realization hit. “You mean the night I slept on your couch? Did you two shag while I was in your flat?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

He sank into a chair. “Why did I have to ask?”  

Sherlock gave him a haughty look. “It’s not as if you were aware or present during the activities so I don’t see how it affects you.”

Greg shook his head. “No, no. You’re right. It’s just a bit of a shock.”

“John will be glad that isn’t what tipped you off. He’s been worried you might have heard us.”

“No, it was the tattoo. Property of Sherlock Holmes. Really? And he agreed to that?”

“It was my idea.” They both turned to see John standing in the doorway. “See, it’s me. Back from the loo. Where I went. Alone.”

John walked to stand next to Sherlock. “We okay here?” Their hands brushed for a brief moment.

Sherlock spoke first. “Yes, it’s all good.”

Greg agreed. “I won’t say anything to anyone.” He smiled at them. “You two are oddly perfect for each other. I’m happy for you both.”

John nodded. “Thanks.” He looked at Sherlock. “I’m utterly beat. Have you figured it out? I’d really like to go home and have a kip.”

Sherlock grabbed the file he’d been looking at last. He handed it to Greg. “If you find the one who did this, then you’ll find your culprit. If you have any problems we’ll help. After we’ve had our _kip_.”

The popped P at the end of kip told Greg all he needed to know about what plans Sherlock had for their nap. John shook his head and nudged him out the door. “Sorry about that, Greg.”

After they left, he noticed Sherlock’s scarf on the chair. Before he could call out, Sherlock darted back in. Wrapping it around his neck, he gave Greg a considering look. “For your information, while the stalls in the lavatory may seem spacious, two grown men do not fit well, even if one of them is below average in size. However, the storage room on the 3rd floor is perfectly acceptable.” He shot him a wink and a grin as he sauntered off.

As mortified as Greg felt, he also realized he was smiling.

 

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. My first Sherlock story! I hope y'all enjoyed! Thanks for the lovely comments and kudos!


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